World War Holmes: Operation Engagement
by SnivaliceLlover
Summary: John and Mycroft have a little dinner planned for their better halfs - Sherlock and Lestrade. Yet will everything run smoothly, or will the usual Holmes-sibling conflict taint the evening? Mystrade/JohnLock. Fluff/Slash and just hilarity.
1. Mission 1 : The Engagement

"Dinner? With my brother? Here? In our flat? With my brother? John, have you finally lost your mind?" Sherlock's voice floated out of their bathroom, a tone of surprise leaking through the annoyance in his voice. John sighed, running his hand through his hair as he sat on their bed. It was difficult to have a decent conversation with the detective about his brother when he was in the **same **room as him, and now communicating through a wooden door was even worse.

"Yes. I've invited him and Lestrade for dinner tonight and you better behave." John had to use his authoritative Captain voice in this situation, knowing that Sherlock would put up any resistance when it came to interacting with his sibling for a significant amount of time.

"Mycroft? Mycroft Holmes? The same Mycroft Holmes with an umbrella fetish? **The **Mycroft Holmes who revealed my whole personal life to an insane criminal mastermind? THE SAME Mycroft Holmes who strapped you to enough explosive to start a small nuclear war JUST because I forgot his birthday?" Sherlock would never forget that particular incident in a hurry.

It had taken John a lot to forgive Mycroft for that, but now, since that very interesting phone call he received a week ago, it seemed like he had no choice but to accept the eldest Holmes' profound apology.

"Yes, that Mycroft Holmes. Your only brother, unless you've got one squirrelled away in Nepal or something being a terror suspect." The bathroom door opened and Sherlock marched out, a towel wrapped loosely around his hips, and gave John a withering look.

"That was a poor example of a joke, John. Humphrey is actually in Florida." Now it was Sherlock's turn to return banter, making John smile at his boyfriend's serious face as he told it.

"Anyway -" he reached forward, pulling Sherlock close by the fold on his towel and running his hand up his partner's still slightly damp back. "- I thought it would be fun. We barely have anytime off just to entertain guests and I want to get to know Lestrade better. I hardly see him anymore." John pressed a tiny kiss against Sherlock's stomach, glancing up at the amused detective.

Sherlock sighed, slowly stroking John's hair affectionately. As their business lives were so busy, with John dashing off to that damned clinic at any hour and Sherlock investigating cases for days on end, it was these times of them just being a proper couple together that made Sherlock at his most comfortable and happiest. They couldn't act like this whilst on crime scenes and Sherlock didn't like disappointing John when they were together.

"I don't know why you're so insistent about this. World War Holmes will take off approximately twenty minutes into the dinner and I don't want you to waste all that time cooking." Sherlock was trying to be as considerate as he could in order to get his own way, and providing good enough reasons for John not to engage in this dinner was the main target.

"We'll order something in. We haven't even seen your brother since he announced he's dating Lestrade, and I think it's our responsibility as a more experienced couple to give them some advice".

_What he really meant was he wanted to give Lestrade some good advice on how to date a Holmes brother and not get the impulse to punch him. _

Sherlock sighed, knowing he was beaten now. He couldn't resist the pleading look that John was shooting him now. That's one of the reasons he had fallen so heavily for the doctor's love. John was so human, with real emotions and needs. It was completely different from what he was used to.

However, Sherlock did spend a lot of his time before John with dead bodies, so any human contact was bound to make an impact.

"Okay," he finally caved in, grinning as John's happy smile radiated up at him. The doctor moved up to give the detective a long kiss, pulling him close as they fell on the bed together. Sherlock sat up, kneeling over John, his towel nearly dropping from his hips.

"But as long as you can get one of those ridiculously fatty Chinese meals and let me make comments about Mycroft's expanding waistline for the entire evening." John sighed, bringing the detective back to his lips and he accepted his terms and conditions for the meal ahead.

_A meal they'd never forget._

"How's the diet going Mycroft?"

Twenty-two seconds.

It had taken Sherlock Holmes precisely twenty-two seconds to start the attack on Mycroft's figure. The oldest sibling froze half-out of his coat as his younger brother grinned cockily at him. Lestrade wasn't even in the flat yet, as Mycroft had stilled right at the door.

John groaned silently, and pushing the detective out of the way, he helped the now-glaring elder Holmes brother out of his coat.

"Raining out?" John questioned, trying in vain to get Mycroft into a decent conversation without his partner's involvement.

"No… Lestrade bought me this new umbrella and I haven't used it yet." Mycroft turned away from his brother, gesturing with the long sleek accessory in his hand. It had a beautifully carved handle and Mycroft was beaming as he gently let John take it from him.

"It's divine isn't it?" Mycroft looked tenderly back at Lestrade, he gently kissed his cheek.

A snort of derisive laughter came from the consulting detective. "What thrilling lives you lead," Sherlock drawled, smirking at his brother

John flicked a glance at Sherlock, who winked back.

"Shall we adjourn into the living room?" John pushed their guests towards the living room, leaving him and his partner behind. Shooting him an annoyed look, Sherlock sighed, wrapping his arms around the doctor, resting his chin on the doctor's head.

"You said I could tease him." Although he couldn't see his face, John could sense a smile behind the words.

"I didn't think you would launch an attack within half a minute of them walking in, though," John retaliated, but leant into Sherlock's embrace. The detective had the curious quality of being constantly warm, always feeling like an open flame when John hugged him. It was exactly how he was different from his brother. The Iceman and the Volcano.

"Next time I'll hold my biting tongue back for 5 minutes then." A compromise. Not a very good one, but one nonetheless. John had learned to be a lot more lenient when it came to the consulting detective.

"That may make all the difference when it comes to signing the peace treaty." World War Holmes was the perfect description for the continuing arguing between the siblings, and John was now determined to get it into every meeting.

Sherlock rolled his eyes before crushing the doctor close, releasing him within a split-second and towing him into the front room. Lestrade and Mycroft were sitting close together on the settee, with the surprising addition of Mrs Hudson hovering over them. Where she had appeared from wasn't completely sure, but she smiled at her tenants affectionately, slightly misty-eyed. It was pretty usual for the landlady to mother the young couple, and now with the addition of the eldest Holmes brother with his significant other, it seemed to be proving too much for the woman.

"Tea, dears?" she questioned. John glanced at Mycroft and Lestrade. Both of them were clutching two large cups of tea if their lives depended on it, and a sizeable amount of biscuits were resting on a plate on the coffee table.

"Nothing for me, Mrs Hudson… I thought you had that programme you wanted to watch tonight?" In a less than cruel way, John wanted her to leave. It was supposed to be a dinner for four, but as it stood, Mrs Hudson was going to be the surprise guest.

"Oh, no dear, it's quite alright. I'm recording it on Sky. Wondrous technology. Do you have it, Chief Inspector?" Lestrade jumped slightly, smiling at the elderly woman who was gazing at him with interest.

"Uh, yes. We have it at home. And please call me Greg." Lestrade smiled charmingly at the woman. Sherlock frowned, sitting down in his usual chair and grabbing a large mug of tea.

"Why would she call you Greg?" John inwardly groaned. Trust Sherlock to forget the simplest etiquette of remembering his guest's names.

"That's his name, Sherlock. I don't forget your boyfriend's name, so please try and do the same," Mycroft snarled, making Sherlock raise his eyebrows at the usually cool exterior of his brother cracking slightly.

"What have you been doing to him, **Lestrade**? He's not usually this defensive -" Sherlock reached out to pull John closer, making him fall on top of his lap. His arms wrapped around the struggling doctor like some sort of snare.

"- Has he finally fallen in love with you? Or have you rationed his calorie intake to some small amount in the tens of thousands? The diet's not working Mycroft." John could see now why inviting the two Holmes brothers into his house was a mistake. He glanced over to the mantelpiece. There were plenty of delicate objects strewn across the various shelves, all possible targets for the first battle of World War Holmes.

He would have to intervene, becoming the metaphorical Christmas truce in the Battle of the Somme.

"Mycroft? Can I interest you in a selection of cupcakes in the kitchen? Sherlock and Lestrade probably want to talk about the last case." John shot Mycroft a look, hoping the oldest Holmes would prefer his company to that of his brother's.

Plus, there was a reason he had invited Mycroft and Lestrade to this dinner, and it wasn't just for the polite conversation.

"I don't want to talk about the las-" John cut Sherlock off with a deep kiss, making the taller man blush as he pulled away.

"C'mon, Mycroft." He clambered off Sherlock's lap and with the oldest Holmes brother on his heels, they walked into the kitchen.

"John... As much as I appreciate the offer of cake, I really am trying with my diet," Mycroft said earnestly. John reached into one of the cupboards, grabbing one of the incriminating snacks and shoving it into Mycroft's outstretched hand.

"Do you have it?" John's voice had dropped to a whisper and realization dawned in Mycroft's eyes. That's why he wanted him alone.

That's why he had invited him over for this god-awful dinner. The phone call between them hadn't been the most comfortable thing in the world, and Mycroft being Mycroft had put the topic out of his mind for the time being, just enjoying being fussed over by Greg Lestrade.

However, just before they had come over that night, something made Mycroft bring it along with him. Tuck it in his suit pocket for safekeeping.

Mycroft nodded, his mouth suddenly dry. The enormity of the situation came over him now, making him tremble like a leaf.

"Yes." he patted his pocket, letting his fingers curl over the shape inside. It was precious, so precious. And he hoped it would be received with the same amount of love as it had promised all those years ago.

"Mine's upstairs," John whispered, gesturing with his thumb to the ceiling. "Can you provide a big-enough distraction so I can pop up and get it?" He couldn't believe he was going to do this. It made him want to jump for joy and be violently ill at the same time.

"Of course." Mycroft liked the doctor. He kept his brother grounded and not constantly putting his life at risk. He had watched John getting ripped apart after the 'Reichenbach' episode, and slowly get sewn back together by Sherlock's love in returning, and that was the exact tower of strength that Sherlock needed.

A knock at the door made them both turn. The conversation in the front room, which started up as stilted was now flowing enthusiastically. John could see Sherlock leaning forward in his chair, his fingers interlocked as he rested his arms on his knees. He could tell without even having to look at the man's facethat it would be flushed with excitement, ready to argue any point and debate any possibility.

Mycroft could just make out the profile of Greg stretched back on the settee, using one hand to illustrate with whilst tightly clasping the tea. He had crossed his ankles over and looked a picture of profession. He was laughing, his eyes would be even darker than usual, burning with the passion he had for his job.

They loved their partners so much it was a physical ache in the two men.

"John? Our dinner's at the door. Be a sweetheart and get it for us will you?" Another reason to do what he was about to do.

John glanced at Mycroft. "Get the door," he whispered before darting upstairs to get his purchase.

"Well, John, this is a lovely spread" Lestrade rubbed his hands together enthusiastically. The table was now heaving with different meals on mismatched plates, and from an enthusiastic Mrs Hudson, they had a bottle of wine in the centre of the table and a bunch of dripping candles.

Mycroft surveyed the dinner, nodding as he spread a napkin on his lap. "Very satisfactory, John. Please send my compliments to the Phoenix Palace" he laughed shortly, making Sherlock look at him over the rim of his glass.

"Don't attempt a joke Mycroft, it's not very becoming from somebody your size," Sherlock snickered into his wine.

"I don't see how my humour stems from my weight Sherlock," Mycroft sneered back as everybody dug in, placing steaming amounts of noodles on each other's plate

"I'm surprised you can **SEE **anything from that gut you've got underneath that jumper." John reached over and placed his hand on Sherlock's mouth, stopping anymore childish insults come from him. Sherlock glared at him before sloppily kissing the man's palm and digging in the chow mein with relish.

"Anyway," Lestrade cut in, reaching over absent-mindedly and wiping a stray piece of sauce away from Mycroft's mouth. "You were filling me in on the latest case, Sherlock".

Sherlock nodded, his mouth full of food. He looked like an over-indulged hamster with the swollen cheeks, a trait that John found so cute in Sherlock.

"It was the local estate manager. Insurance policy. Check out his back records, he's been in prison for over 3 years on a previous burglary notice. Seems like he wanted to strike the, using the colloquial term, 'big bucks' on this one," Sherlock rattled off.

Lestrade raised his eyebrows, but knowing better than attempting to correct or even ask questions about the detective's deductions and nodded.

"He didn't have to drown the poor man in the cesspool did he? Messy business dragging him out." Lestrade shuddered at the memory, remembering how the stench made him want to peel his own skin off and toss it into the washing machine. Safe to say, Mycroft withheld sex until the smell disappeared.

"Yes. Lucky you had Anderson as the eager volunteer. I suspect he was thrilled when he learnt the reason behind the biohazard suit," John smiled, spearing a spring roll heartily. Sherlock grinned at this, loving that John had the exact same contempt for the dinosaur-lover as the detective did.

Mycroft looked over at Lestrade, covering his hand with his. It was the time. He could feel it.

John patted his pocket before he was sure to carry on. Despite having the rest of the table otherwise preoccupied with their food, he wanted to do it now. He wanted to take that leap of faith, the fall that would have a permanent destination.

Mycroft looked at Greg. Lestrade was everything to him. His umbrella. The one that protected him from the storm. It was time for the most magical moment in his life.

John traced his fingers over Sherlock's high cheekbone, making the other man look at him with puzzlement. He had no idea what the doctor was doing. Neither did John Watson.

Mycroft squeezed Greg's hand, making the inspector look up at him. Mycroft cleared his throat.

John opened his mouth to ask that one question. The fateful question.

"Will you marry me?"

The two men looked at each other, shocked that they had said it at the same time, the exact same moment. It wasn't scripted, the love couldn't be faked. They both meant it.

The recipients of the question had very similar expressions as well. Wide eyes, parted mouths, shallow breathing. Utterly shocked, and both utterly beautiful.

It was silence.

There were no words. Only one definite answer came from both of the now-weeping men.

"YES!" they both shouted, clinging onto their new fiancés gleefully.

Mycroft looked over Lestrade's shoulder at his brother who was clinging to John, and for the first time since they were children, they were truly happy for each other.

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><p><strong>*Disclaimer*<strong>

**I don't own any of the character. All respect and beauty goes to the BBC and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.**


	2. Mission 2 : The Wedding Suits

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* * *

><p>"Now, listen to me. Behave," John hissed as they stood outside the embossed glass doors of the tailors. Sherlock sighed beside him, one hand jammed deep in his pocket whilst the other was held tightly by John.<p>

"I _always_behave," Sherlock countered, grinning slightly as John dug him in the ribs. Behind the glass he could see the slightly balding figure of Mycroft engaging in a conversation with a sales person. Mycroft was still wearing his customary waistcoat and suit trousers ensemble whilst John was only kitted out in his stripy jumper and jeans. He felt underdressed for this particular brand of shopping. Lestrade wasn't anywhere to be seen, but the drawn curtain behind the older Holmes gave a slight indication to where the Detective Inspector was.

"You behave when it suits you, and the legendary Holmes courtesy is famed for its low appearance level." John sighed as he scanned the suits in the window. Shopping was always difficult when Sherlock was involved, and suit shopping for their nuptials in two weeks was going to be no different.

Especially since Lestrade and John had come up with the brainwave of having a joint wedding. There had been arguments, shouting, silence and fury from both of the Holmes siblings over having to share their wedding day with their 'arch enemy'.

"John, don't try and be clever, it doesn't suit you, love." How Sherlock could end a scathing remark with an endearment and still make John's heart flutter was beyond him. He tugged the doctor into the boutique, the door giving a delightful jingle as they entered. Mycroft turned slightly, nodding at his brother and his fiancé. John smiled weakly back and tugged Sherlock down slightly, whispering in his ear before they could approach.

"Sherlock, I mean it! Just... If you 'deduce' that if any of the staff are having affairs, in the middle of a divorce, have a relative who recently died or going through a psychotic episode, I beg of you… Please don't reveal it. For me?" John desperately wanted the next few hours to go perfectly.

Or relatively smooth without any massive bumps.

It **was** the Holmes brothers after all.

"Ah… My dear brother and Doctor Watson. I feel blessed that you've taken your time out for this. Greg's getting changed at the moment." Mycroft drawled, waving away the pale sales assistant behind him. He leaned in, lowering his voice.

"I don't recommend you using that silly girl. She's in the throes of a pregnancy which didn't come from her husband." At that specific moment, the young sales assistant appeared at his elbow, her eyes wide with horror and her smile dropping when she realized that Mycroft had somehow found out her secret. She dumped the load of shirts she was carrying into Sherlock's slightly outstretched arms, tears already flowing from her eyes.

"…Excuse me." She bolted to the back room, John watching her worriedly. However Mycroft and Sherlock both looked unconcerned as they watched the woman flee.

"Well, that's solved that" Sherlock smirked, turning to drop the load of cotton and silk shirts on John.

"And how are you, Mycroft? The diet going well?" Mycroft's jaw tightened slightly but he nodded fixedly.

"Very, thank you. Soon I'll be as spidery as you." The oldest Holmes looked down his brother's form briefly. It had always been a sore spot in Mycroft's life that he always considered the 'large' brother. It wasn't his fault that Sherlock was so freakishly thin.

"I wouldn't bet on it, Mycroft. One bad day and you'll go through a pack of iced doughnuts like a dehydrated man given water."

"One _bad_ day for me is when we find inter-ballistic missiles from the terror camps trained on the Docklands, not when they don't stock pumpkin seeded rolls in the canteen."

"Should you really be eating carbohydrates, Mycroft? It'll ruin your _trim_-" Sherlock emphasised the word with a coating of sarcasm, "-figure."

"Boys? Can we -?" Sherlock turned in puzzlement. John's voice sounded oddly muffled by the large cargo of dress shirts that John was carrying – they nearly reached the top of his head – so Sherlock gratefully unloaded the majority of them, swooping down to give John a tiny kiss.

"You're utterly adorable." John grinned, nuzzling up to Sherlock's side. The coat was definitely one of his favourites out of the accessories Sherlock had. It was large enough that on a cold night, they could tuck each other in it, their bodies pressed flush against each other.

John peered around Sherlock's side, nodding at the figure emerging from the dressing room. Lestrade was clothed in a close-cut double breasted dove-grey suit, his face flushed with embarrassment. Mycroft nodded approvingly, stepping behind his partner and sweeping his hands down his shoulders and sides.

"Very. Very. Nice." Mycroft crooned, pressing a small kiss in Lestrade's salt-and-pepper hair with each word.

John smiled at the red-faced DI. "I agree; very debonair."

Sherlock only raised his eyebrow at Lestrade. John wasn't sure if he could disassociate their work together with the fact he was marrying Mycroft. He didn't think any of them could believe the marriage was actually coming so swiftly.

"Yes, lovely, Lestrade. Have you captured the gardener yet? You did get my text message, didn't you?" Sherlock peered at the Inspector, ignoring the fact that Mycroft's hands had stilled on his shoulder and his face was pinched with annoyance.

"Yes, Sherlock... I did," Lestrade admitted nervously, gently removing Mycroft's painful grip on his shoulders.

"Well, you didn't text me back," Sherlock sighed, looking around the shop floor. There were at least ten assistants around the edges, all staring at the group fearfully.

"What did you do, Mycroft? They all resemble Molly Hooper when I pay her a compliment." John looked down, biting his cheek to stop himself from laughing. But Sherlock was right. The wide-eyes, slight trembling and disbelief were uncanny like the young woman.

"I just informed them I didn't want to be served by three alcoholics, four adulterers, two who couldn't spell 'cat' let alone 'wedding' and a stuck up manageress who got her money from marrying a decrepit elderly earl," Mycroft announced loudly, his voice making the assistants cringe slightly. The smarter dressed woman standing near the till opened and closed her mouth in shock.

"Or something to that effect. There were a few more insults if I can recall, Mycroft," Lestrade interjected, brushing down his suit in the mirror.

"Yes… This will do very nicely." Lestrade turned back to his fiancé, grinning smugly. "Time to get your clothes on".

Mycroft sighed, turning to one of the shaking assistants and beckoning her over irritably. She rushed up to him, her voice just above a squeak.

"C-Can I be of any assistance, M-Mr Holmes?" Mycroft fixed a steely gaze on her.

"Yes, we'd like to purchase the suit Mr Lestrade is wearing. And I'll need a selection of suits from black to a light grey. These-" he reached into his pocket and drew out a folded piece of paper, "-are my measurements".

"Yes, I would be embarrassed by my size if I was you. Good thinking there, Mycroft, writing it down," Sherlock called from where he was sitting next to John on one of the luxury settees that had been placed around the shop floor.

Mycroft shot a furious glare at Sherlock, before leaning closer to the still-shaking assistant. "Also, can you make sure he -" Mycroft pointed at his brother. "- doesn't lay his greedy hands on them?"

"_I'm_the greedy one? I'll be needing a suit as well, but one at least half of my dear brother's measurements," Sherlock scoffed, addressing the assistant. As she bustled off, the consulting detective turned to his partner, smiling at him. The doctor glowered back, making Sherlock sigh.

"Okay, what have I done now?" Sherlock leaned back, folding his arms as he took in the doctor's surly expression.

"One day. One day, that's all I asked for" John muttered under his breath, but loud enough for Sherlock to catch.

"Correction. You asked that I wouldn't ridicule the staff by discussing their personal lives out-loud. My brother already did this, quite sufficiently may I add, and you don't let me indulge myself in annoying the bane of my sibling's life which is his morbidly obese waistline? Frankly, I'm shocked you're still angry at me," Sherlock shot back. John closed his eyes, counted slowly to ten before opening them. It was a technique he had perfected to deal with his Holmes-related anger.

"Okay… You're right. Don't do the face -" Sherlock had to catch himself before he did the traditional 'I'm-Always-So-Right-And-Everybody-Is-Ten-Times-Stupider-Than-Me' smug smile.

"- and just go and find some gorgeous suit for me to swoon over and say you look the second best I've ever seen you."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows at this. Only second best?

John smirked and pressed a tender kiss against Sherlock's mouth. "Remember that I've seen you naked. Sorry, but a suit can't beat that." Sherlock shook his head fondly before getting up slowly.

The assistant came back, tugging a heavy rail of suits, all in different cuts, colours and lengths.

"What about you, Mr Watson? Where are you getting fitted?" Mycroft turned to the still-seated doctor, half-unbuttoning his waistcoat.

"Sherlock and I have decided it would be fitting if I wear my army uniform." John smiled back at Mycroft who nodded in approval.

"Yes, we thought it would be a good reflection on John's honour. Here's a good idea Mycroft, why don't we see if we can get Lestrade one of those police outfits? I know the luminous green safety jackets would go _deliciously_with your suit." Sherlock said sweetly, tossing his own jacket to John.

"How about no," Mycroft retorted, and grabbing a suit he stormed into one of the changing rooms. Sherlock winked at John and walked into his own separate changing room.

John shook his head, catching Lestrade's eye in the mirror. The Inspector sighed, but both of them had ridiculous grins on their faces similar to those worn by parents when comparing the antics of their children.

"What are they like?" John questioned, leaning back and listening to the hushed voices of the other customers around them, all secluded in their own booths.

"Terrifyingly intelligent children who only find solace in comparing each other's Star Treks goodies and riling the other when they can't quote direct Spock monologues?" Lestrade offered, straightening his tie.

"I was going to say complete idiots, but yours sound better," John laughed.

"But we love them right?" Lestrade's voice was almost drowned out a female squeal coming from the next booth. An excited chatter came from another woman with her and John turned to shake his head in the direction of the noise.

"We'd have to if we're putting up with this nonsense."

Lestrade grinned pleasantly and John shrugged in mutual agreement as the sound of movement came from the excited woman's changing room. Two women's voice swooped down at them.

"…Oh, you've got to walk in it, Bex!…"

"What does the back look like?"

"Oh my God! So beautiful!"

Hold on… John recognized that first voice. It stirred a familiar stirring in his chest. Something he associated with antiseptic, a waft of fresh circus sawdust and a light dusting of lavender perfume.

…It couldn't be, could it? Lestrade didn't want to believe it. He wasn't hearing it. Not that voice that brought back memories of screaming, sobbing, tender kisses and tight embraces.

They turned to face as two women barged into their area. One was clutching hold of the other's arm, grinning at her friend's obvious delight. She had shoulder-length brown hair, a thin face and light blue eyes and was dressed casually. Her friend was smaller than her, her dark red hair in a curled style on her shoulder. She had a wide red mouth and her incredibly curvy body was encased in a strapless white glittery dress with a mermaid train.

The bride looked up, her eyes focusing on Lestrade with horror. She almost stumbled, nearly toppling off her tall stilettos as her face paled to an unnatural white.

Her friend looked at John, blinking in surprise as she realised that was what 'his weekend plans' involved.

The two men gazed back, Lestrade almost as pale as her. He swore he would never see that cheating harlot again. Not after the divorce had cleared him flat-out.

"Rebecca."

"Sarah."

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><p><strong>Like always - please review. Flamers aren't really welcome.<strong>

***Disclaimer!***

**I don't own any of the characters - everything belongs to the BBC.**


	3. Mission 3: The Ex's

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* * *

><p>"Oh my goodness." Sarah's smile was strained. She gingerly let go of Rebecca's arm and walked forward, giving John a brief hug. John blinked over her shoulder at the woman she was accompanying. He had never had the <em>pleasure<em> of meeting the ex-Mrs Lestrade, but from the Chief Inspector's vivid descriptions, he had foolishly imagined her with matching devil horns and a trident made of fire.

This woman was smaller, but even John couldn't deny she was incredibly pretty. Her hair was a waterfall of dark chocolate curls over her shoulder and her heart shaped face, full red lips and wide almond shaped brown eyes gave her an almost Hispanic look. The dress she was wearing showed off her almost hourglass shaped figure, and she was smiling nervously at Lestrade.

"What are you doing here!" Sarah's voice made him turn at look at his ex-girlfriend. She was trying to appear calm, but her furtive glances over to where the ex-couple were still staring at each made it obvious that she knew exactly who Greg Lestrade was in relation to Rebecca.

"Uh, trying on suits actually. Well, I'm not but Sherlock is. Yeah… he's not here at the moment obviously; he's trying a few on. In the changing room... O-over there." John was babbling but he couldn't help it. He could feel the tension roll of his friend beside him.

"How lovely! And… Inspector Lestrade, I presume? So pleased to meet you." Lestrade ignored the outstretched hand. His eyes were burning into his now cowering ex-wife.

How dare she be here? In that white dress acting all innocent and virgina.l.. He didn't even want to know who the fella was, but Greg felt sorry for him. Before he met Mycroft, he thought Rebecca Ferguson was his future, his immortal beloved. With that beauty on his arm, Lestrade used to feel invincible at the beginning of their courtship.

Then came the deceit.

The lies, the whispered phone calls in the garage or summerhouse and the weekends away visiting 'elderly family' or 'sick friends'. He had forgiven her for the artist… Then for the fireman. Then for the running buddy... But after the PE teacher he had left. Packed up his bags and moved away. He had given her the almost palatial home, the custody of their three dogs and a colossal amount of money, but here she was, standing before him, health and love radiating from that tight wedding dress. He glanced down, his jaw tightening as he clocked the square diamond glittering on her finger.

It wasn't as if he didn't expect her to get married again and continue her life. Hell, here he was, his fiancé in the changing room not ten feet away and their wedding day planned for twelve days ahead.

But not here. Not now.

"Greg…" Ah. There it was. The deep yet soft voice. That tender tone that always accompanied his first name. Rebecca's voice was one of the things that he had always loved. She had one of those fruitful laughs that came from her stomach, and would flash that oh-so-jammy smile when he used to enter a room.

"Rebecca." He hated how weak and croaky his voice sounded now. He cleared his throat, nodding at her. She smiled slightly and with a rustle of satin, she walked forward, wrapping her arms around Lestrade's waist.

His own arms came woodenly around her and they embraced for a brief second, but it gave Greg enough time to inhale her perfume. Anna Sui Dolly Girl. As usual. He loathed that smell now, dreaded going into a large chain store where there would always be some sprayed in the fragrance aisles.

What he loved now was the clean, expensive scent of Imperial Leather soap. Mycroft would bulk buy the hand cream, soap and shower gel, covering himself in the thick suds and leaving behind the waft. Lestrade always knew where Mycroft had been in their townhouse by the strength of the scent in the room.

The she-devil pulled away, pulling up her dress slightly as she looked at Lestrade.

"You look well," she noted, scanning his body quickly. Even at that look, Lestrade wanted to scrub his body clean. He had good reason to hate Rebecca, but he could never manage full on distain.

"I am… Thank you. So do you." He hated how true that was. She was glowing. She really suited the life of a fiancée, with the dress trying-on and the flower-picking. Lestrade could vaguely remember her at this stage. Married Rebecca always seemed paler, with a sulky pout and a blank stare.

"Well," she smiled smugly, brushing down her dress. "I suppose all brides have that certain look about them." Lestrade shifted uncomfortably. He was aware of John's nervous stare on his face.

"Yes... They do. You look better then you did on our wedding day." Lestrade had tried and block out what she looked like on their wedding day, but it all came flowing back to him now. That meringue dress, flowery headband and thick train swamped her as she struggled down the small walkway of the Lestrade's family church, but Greg Lestrade was blind to that.

He was happy then.

Now it was a distant nightmare.

"Well... That dress was your mother's choice if I recall. Frank has given me free reign on this one." That dress. Lestrade wanted to laugh. It was a pure white dress, scalloped and mermaid-tailed to the extreme. Her cleavage was threatening to escape out of the bodice top, the excess of diamante glittering on her chest, and a large starched bow was placed directly on her hips, drawing the attention to them.

Lestrade smirked slightly at this. Although his wife had been a cheating and backstabbing whore throughout their married life, she had always maintained her size 8 figure through a vigorous work-out regime every day.

Now she seemed to be spilling out of a size 16 dress.

"Yes... That dress certainly is snug on you".

It wasn't as if Lestrade didn't like the curvier side of his ex-wife, but he knew that the weight gain would've been frustrating to her. And that anguish made him happy.

John didn't like the slightly evil gleam in Lestrade's eyes as he took in his ex-wife. He knew their relationship certainly had been volatile, but a screaming match in the middle of the floor wasn't something he had in mind.

"I'm John Watson," John leant forward, extending his hand to the surprised woman. She nodded at him, slightly confused. Sarah moved back to her side, grinning as she squeezed Rebecca's arm.

"Rebecca Ferguson… So Greg, are you here for some reason? Or is stalking now part of your ex-husband life?" Rebecca bit back, the fight coming back in her eyes as she caught the Inspector's eye.

Lestrade's eyes flashed back. "Don't flatter yourself, Becky. I'm actually here with Mycroft". Rebecca raised her eyebrow. She knew through the grapevine that Greg had snagged himself a government official, but she never considered the possibility it was Mycroft.

She could remember Mycroft. The privately-educated man with the slight middle-aged stomach and the sleek suits that used to come to their house for wine-tastings and dinners.

Not the sort of man who she could picture Greg Lestrade marrying at all.

"Ah… Yes, Mycroft Holmes. How is the old codfish? Still thinking he's above everybody else?"

"Actually, Rebecca... I _know_ I'm above everybody else." Mycroft himself came sweeping out of the changing room. Lestrade's mouth dropped open slightly as he took in the smartly cut, black tailed tuxedo. It was unfair. Mycroft always cut a handsome figure in his everyday suit, but seeing him in this one... It made Lestrade's heart flutter slightly. It was perfect.

Mycroft smirked slightly at the Inspector as he approached him, wrapping his arm around his waist tenderly.

"Rebecca," he cooed, reaching forward to squeeze her hand. Mycroft's smooth movement almost seemed rehearsed, but Lestrade knew it was his natural charm.

"Mycroft," she simpered back. Sarah smiled weakly at the government official and she cast a wild-eyed look back at John who shrugged, knowing his almost brother-in-law was a dangerous opponent at the best of times.

"Well… Although it's not my place to say, I highly recommend you don't purchase that particular dress. The bow doesn't do anything but add more weight to you. Something I suspect you don't want to happen." Mycroft beamed as the woman blushed deeply.

"And you are Sarah?" Mycroft turned to the female doctor, his smile disarming. "I heard so many stories about you... Strange… I thought you'd be prettier." John had to hide a smile. He didn't have any massive grudge against Sarah as she was his work partner, but the awkwardness of shared kisses and smiles still hung over them.

"Now, Rebecca, remind me again… Who are you marrying?"

"The PE teacher, Mycroft. Surely the stench of the boys' changing room coming off her is a clear hint." Sherlock appeared behind John, showing his slender figure off in a deliciously cut black tie suit. The two brothers complimented each other perfectly. John and Greg couldn't believe that they were getting married to such gods.

Rebecca eye's widened as she tried to inconspicuously sniff her arm. Sherlock slipped his hand in John's, beaming at Sarah.

"I heard John had to take over your shift as you had to visit the gynaecologists last week, Sarah? Nothing bad, I hope." Sarah's blush mimicked Rebecca's at Sherlock announcement. She shook her head at this, making the Holmes brothers smile at each other.

"Brilliant. Now if you don't mind, we must whisk our beaux away. It's been lovely to see you again." Sherlock smiled charmingly at the two women as they both towed John and Lestrade to the mirrors.

"Um… Actually… Do you mind if I speak to Greg in private, please?" Rebecca piped up.

"Yes, me too? John, I mean." Sarah gulped as the two Holmes brothers shot ice-cool glares over their shoulders, but released their partners.

* * *

><p>As they moved away, Sherlock watched as John smiled at something Sarah said and dread filled him. Couldn't that <em>woman <em>wait until Monday morning to speak to John?

Mycroft was uncomfortable as Rebecca laid her hand against Greg's arm lightly. He shouldn't feel jealous. Lestrade was his. Nobody else's.

"Mycroft," Sherlock sighed. The eldest Holmes nodded, knowing what his younger brother was going to say.

"We have to stop fighting." Mycroft agreed. He had seen how Lestrade and John had shot long-suffering glances at each other when they thought the Holmes brother's weren't watching.

"Otherwise... I mean look at that!" Sherlock pointed at Sarah and John. The army doctor was chuckling at something she had just said. "She's flirting with him."

Mycroft frowned as Greg smiled shyly at Sarah. This he was uncomfortable with.

"I agree."

"Look? I swear she's propositioning him." Sherlock remarked, anger in his voice as he kept his eyes trained on Sarah and John.

"Let's not go mad, Sherlock…"

"Mycroft. Use your eyes. Look at how she's acting around Lestrade then. She's leaning in close, pouting slightly… Look! She just pulled down her dress slightly. You can't deny that isn't something." Mycroft sighed loudly. Yes, he could see how Rebecca was using her 'womanly charms' around Greg, but having Sherlock voice them wasn't something he needed at this moment.

"Yes, dear brother, I see… In order to keep on track with the wedding, we've got to become civil with each other. Now don't pull that face," Mycroft sighed as he saw Sherlock wrinkle his nose up in annoyance.

"It's infuriating for me, too. But… for them…" Mycroft nodded to their fiancés. "If we keep arguing, we'll just cause rifts and never get to the wedding."

Sherlock knew his brother was right. He hated seeing John stew with barely-suppressed anger after a dinner of Holmes banter. But to actually agree with him was torture.

He swallowed his pride. "Fine," he spat out as he had to physically restrain himself from pouncing on the now embracing Sarah and John.

"I'm glad we agree. Now let's just act like everything's normal. Smile, Sherlock," Mycroft commanded, and with great difficulty they stretched their facial muscles into something resembling a smile as their fiancés walked towards them.

* * *

><p>As they caught sight of the Holmes brothers, both of their loves frowned and hurried close, worry clear on their faces.<p>

"Are you okay?" Lestrade questioned, resting his palm against Mycroft's forehead.

"Not ill, are you?" John quipped, taking Sherlock's pulse.

The brothers frowned at this and shook their heads. "No… We're fine. Why?" Mycroft answered.

"You look like you're in pain." John scanned Sherlock's face with his eyes quickly.

"Yeah. I mean, you're grimacing," Lestrade said, puzzlement in his eyes. The two brothers turned to the mirror, jumping slightly in surprise as they saw their reflections. What they had hoped were charming and sweet smiles were more masks of terror, their teeth bared comically and their eyes manic. They looked insane or in extreme pain. They dropped their terrifying expressions and shrugged.

"Shall we go and buy those suits?" John questioned, kissing Sherlock's nose.

"Yes. What did Sarah want?" It seemed as though Mycroft was asking Lestrade a similar question.

John smiled. "Doesn't matter. Shall we?"

"You know I love you, right?" Mycroft squeezed Lestrade's fingers.

"You do know I absolutely adore you, John Watson?" Sherlock asked, stroking the back of the doctor's neck.

"Of course."

"Of course."

* * *

><p><strong>Reviews most welcome and loved! - Flamers not so much.<strong>

***Disclaimer***

**I don't own any of the characters - Everything goes to the BBC and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.**


	4. Mission 4: The Mummy Factor

**An apology - I'm so so sorry for the bad update times. Coursework has been dragging me down and due to upcoming exams this will probably be more of an occurance so be warned.**

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><p>One day. That's all that John Watson asked for. One day without their mobiles ringing, no unwelcome visitors at the door and nothing to do with the wedding to interfere with their day together.<p>

And so far, none of that had happened.

* * *

><p><strong>(Earlier that morning)<strong>

John glanced over his newspaper, frowning at the incessant ringing that was coming from Sherlock's iPhone on the sideboard. It was almost 10 in the morning and John had spent an almost idyllic morning sleeping in and reading the paper without any necessarily life-threatening incidents – he was beginning to forgive Sherlock for the Petri dish explosion. His winning expression and the fact that Sherlock honestly didn't realize the two would combust into a dreadful goo did make his anger lessen slightly when he saw the charred fridge. Only slightly though – but now. Whoever on the end of his fiancé's phone was begging for attention.

"John, when a phone rings people tend to pick it up and start a tedious conversation," Sherlock quipped as he walked into the front room, ruffling his hair with a towel. His usually ivory skin was a flaming salmon pink after the heat of the shower.

John rolled his eyes, and turned the page of the newspaper loudly. "I was hoping they'd think we were out or something," John retaliated, watching as Sherlock picked up his phone, his face registering slight shock at the unknown caller.

"It's a mobile phone John, it would be a rare occasion if I didn't have it on me," Sherlock muttered, and despite John's protests he unlocked it and held it to his ear, muttering a low "Hello" into the handheld.

John watched his partner curiously. Sherlock was chewing the side of his thumb as he listened to the caller, his forehead creased slightly. The consulting detective pivoted, turning away from John and lowering his voice slightly, although the doctor could still hear him clearly.

"Yes… I know it's been a long time... I've been meaning t-" Sherlock was cut off again as the voice interrupted.

_It's not Mycroft… We saw him yesterday,_ John pondered as Sherlock huffed into the phone.

"Didn't you get the invitation...? So why did you bother ringing if we'll see each other soon...? No I'm not being _**especially difficult**__…"_

_Not a work call. Somebody close to Sherlock._

"Today? But we had plans… Yes… Yes you're right. No, we didn't have plans. John? –" Sherlock raised his voice at this slightly. "– He's fine… He's trying to deduce who I'm talking too, but failing dreadfully." John frowned, before holding up his paper and taking his eyes off his fiancé's back.

"Fine, FINE!... At Fortnum and Mason's? Mummy, we don't want you to buy our wedding cake."

John's stomach flipped slightly at this. So the legendary Violet Holmes had finally contacted them. Despite sending out the invitations nearly two months ago, the elusive Holmes parents hadn't contacted them after the initial RSVP – which had been sent accompanying a luxury Harrods hamper that could had fed them for at least three weeks – and now here she was, talking to her surly youngest son down the phone.

"No, I'm not being ungrateful. Mother please… What about my father? No don't put him on… Oh God." Sherlock took his phone from his ear and pressed it against his shirt, glancing back at John.

"I'll be right back," he said through gritted teeth, and with that he stalked out of the front room, muttering furiously into his phone. John smirked at his partner's frankly childish behaviour and stood up to make a cup of tea ready for the returning detective, whose anger would reach boiling point by the time he came back.

It wasn't an understatement to say Sherlock had a poisonous relationship with his family; one which came from mutual conflictions and massive intellect, John supposed as he stirred the milky tea.

_If Violet and Siger are as clever as their sons, it's no wonder they constantly seem to argue with each other._

As he mulled this over, Sherlock appeared behind him, encircling his waist with his strong arms and resting his chin on John's shoulder.

"Is that for me?" Sherlock muttered, reaching out and plucking the tea from John's hands. He tipped back his head and seemingly not feeling the scorching liquid, drank it quickly.

"Bad phone call?" John asked, leaning back into Sherlock's embrace. The detective sighed in response, before brushing a small kiss against John's neck.

"More… infuriating. It was like I was stuck listening to Anderson on repeat. Very tedious. Mother does half go on." Sherlock closed his eyes. Speaking to his mother had drained him of any energy. John laughed lightly, turning his head to press a soft kiss against Sherlock's shapely cheekbone.

"And...? What's the verdict?" John asked, frowning as Sherlock scowled in annoyance.

"We're meeting her today at Fortnum and Mason's for _cake testing. _Apparently Mycroft will be gracing us with his presence as well, which will be a ball for me." Sherlock tried to smile, but only managed a slight quirk of his lips.

It would've been perfect timing. A cake shop, along with Mycroft and his waist would've proved excellent entertainment for Sherlock, but throwing into the equation his _**parents**_ and the fact the brothers had made an unlikely alliance until the wedding just gave him a headache.

John swallowed, his eyes glazed with panic. He knew he'd have to meet the infamous Holmes couple soon enough, but was hoping it could possibly be at the wedding when he had delicious champagne travelling through his veins, and a boost of confidence.

He looked down at his body, taking in the black and white argyle jumper, comfortable jeans and slippers, and remembered he hadn't shaved that morning. It was not promising when he had to meet the probably debonair and sleek Mrs Holmes and her equally dapper husband.

He remembered a particularly poignant evening a few months back, when he had persuaded Sherlock to reveal little snippets about his future in-laws.

"_Mummy? She was born in Paris and worked, before she met my father as Christian Dior's muse in the 50s. According to her, she was a 'ravishing beauty' in her youth… But I suspect some bias with her stories. I take after her in some aspects, my frame, my hair and my bone structure, although I've got my father's eyes._

_My father was a successful milliner in London, and that's how he met my mother. I remember sitting in his workshop as a child and playing with the velvet and satin that he had discarded. He resembles Mycroft most of all, apart from being slimmer than my dear brother._

_After he met Mummy, he expanded his empire to collaborate with the fashion houses in Paris and Milan, and finally located in Cheshire where they bought our family home. Mycroft and I grew up there. _

Sherlock had once shown him a photograph of his childhood home, a Georgian country house with acres of land around. It was imposing and majestic, much like the man himself.

How could John Watson possibly begin to impress the Holmes family with his humble background?

"Right… What time then?" John desperately needed a shower and a change of clothes before he considered setting off to meet his future mother-in-law. Sherlock glanced at his watch quizzically.

"Well… We should've technically set off ten minutes ago, but I'm always fashionably late." Sherlock raised his eyebrow as John untangled himself from the consulting detective's arms and ran up the stairs, ripping off his jumper as he went.

* * *

><p>John squeezed Sherlock's hand as they stood outside the colossal shop awning. The mint green painting complimented the lush Victorian brick red outside, and the whole place screamed 'expense'. Despite John's smartest shirt and jeans combination, he still felt dowdy compared to Sherlock's obvious elegance.<p>

"Do we have to go in? Can't she just… take Mycroft's opinion?" John smiled weakly, only half-joking when he asked. Sherlock squeezed his fiancé's hand tenderly, but kept his eyes fixed on the stylish-decorated windows which displayed large tins of coffee and tea.

"Unfortunately my mother doesn't work well with the 'outside'. We'll probably be taking her car down the Cavendish afterwards," he sighed as John turned to him, frowning slightly.

"But… the Cavendish is two minutes away!" He tugged his hand out of Sherlock's, and walked to the end of the street before pointing down the narrow one-way. "It's… Just down there. Sherlock, you can see it from here!"

The consulting detective ruffled his hair in annoyance. "Yes I know, but that's my mother. She'd happily skin an elephant if it got her petrol for her precious Bentley. Can we just..." he gestured at the doorway, waiting as John joined him. Sherlock grasped his hand tightly before exhaling loudly.

"Welcome to my family," he muttered darkly as they passed through the doorman-guarded entrance.

"Good to see you again, Mr Holmes," they chimed in unison. Sherlock didn't bother acknowledging them, but the tiny spots of pink flush on his cheeks betrayed his embarrassment.

"How do they know you here?" John whispered, half-expecting Sherlock to announce his mother was a part-owner.

"Mummy constantly shops for our food in here. You use Tesco's and Co-op. Mummy uses Fortnum & Masons for tea and the Harrods food hall for everything else," Sherlock spat back, his tone showing anger not towards the doctor, but towards the pomp of his childhood life.

John blinked at this statement but held his tongue, taking in the beautiful interior of the shop. Sherlock swept him through endless sections, all of the assistants beaming as though Sherlock was made of sunshine. As they walked up a final set of staircases, John caught sight of exquisitely decorated wedding cakes, with a few couples carrying silver plates with small samples on them.

He assumed they'd stop there, but Sherlock pulled him through an unlocked door, to a suite of rooms which seemed too large to hold their current residents.

"Hello dear brother." Mycroft beamed at Sherlock from where he was sitting, plate balanced atop his knee. John glanced around, trying to spot the legendary matriarch, but to no avail.

"Already started your fill then Mycroft? Yes… Chocolate always has been your weakness." Sherlock broke off a tiny sliver from the beautifully iced rose on Mycroft's plate and popped it into his mouth. Although he had promised not to fight with his brother leading up the nuptials, he felt vulnerable now, and there are always exceptions to the rules.

Beside him John sighed heavily and glanced around the fancy showroom. It was teaming with delectable portions and linen tablecloths. John was almost too scared to sit on the cream leather settees that Lestrade was lounging in, tucking into his own slice of cake.

"John," he mumbled through a mouth of food and beamed at the smaller man.

"Greg," he smiled weakly back as Sherlock kept his basilisk glare fixed on Mycroft. _He's enjoying this way too much, _John thought as he glanced at Sherlock.

"Have you seen Mummy?" Sherlock questioned his brother, who was glaring back angrily at his younger sibling.

"Sherlock. For the sake of my _**peace and sanity **_can you please not try and comment on everything I do today? And no… She hasn't rung; I expect she'll join us soon".

Sherlock exhaled quietly, nodding at this news. It wasn't irregular for his mother to be behind schedule. In fact, he remembered as a young boy being left in school until well into the afternoon by his errand-running mother. Shaking this memory off, he turned back to Mycroft, his retort fresh on the tip of his tongue.

"For you _**piece? **_Your piece of cake do you mean, Mycroft?" He chuckled. "Don't be absurd…You've never eaten just ONE piece of cake before." Mycroft exhaled and slammed his cake on the table before stalking off, muttering something about napkins as he passed Lestrade. "Ring me when Mummy gets here would you?" he snapped at Lestrade, who nodded quickly.

Sherlock watched him go, grinning ear-to-ear as Mycroft flounced around the corner.

"This is ideal, John," Sherlock remarked quietly as they sat themselves down on the settee.

"Do you get some sort of kick out of seeing Mycroft squirm or something?" John was aware that Sherlock was feeling nervous about seeing his mother, but pushing Mycroft only got on Lestrade's nerves, as the poignant look signified. Sherlock sighed as he plucked the rest of Mycroft's cake onto a clean plate. He, unlike his brother, never gained weight from eating vast amounts of confectionary.

"Yes, Detective Inspector? You look like you're trying to engage me in a conversation just by eyebrow movement. Either you have something you want to talk to me about or you're experiencing a minor fit... Probably sugar-induced, although I wouldn't put having a minor stress-related breakdown past you. You do live with my charming older brother." Sherlock grinned at the detective.

Lestrade only merely sighed and leant forward, placing his cake next to him. "Listen… You've got to stop riling Mycroft. He's just as worried as you are to meet your mother, and winding him up will only result in a horrible afternoon. Plus... I'm taking time off work to meet my future mother-in-law. I want to make the right impression," Lestrade pleaded, his dark eyes imploring as he stared at Sherlock.

"Why should I?" Sherlock was stubborn. That was usual. He had masked his worry with sarcasm. But having Sherlock even question the reason why he should stop was unusual. John didn't think he was relenting. That was the man he had fallen in love with.

"Well you're not being fair –"

"Never am"

"– You're upsetting him quite a lot –"

"Mycroft doesn't get upset. Unless they've run out of his favourite chocolate"

"…Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"Please try and just –"

"What? Why should I act any differently around Mycroft. We play off each other. I comment on his weight. He retaliates in an equally childish way and we just go through business as usual." Sherlock pulled his scarf on with one deft movement. He leaned forward, pressing his fingertips together.

"What you've got to understand about us, _**Greg**_, is that we've never changed. According to Mummy, when I was brought home from the hospital after I was born, Mycroft tipped me out of my crib for attention. As I began walking, Mycroft would always knock me over with his tricycle. I retaliated when I could of course; Mycroft's weight problem started when he was 16. I've never let him forget that. But I promise you that even when we get elderly and Mycroft won't be able to leave his bed after being crowned the Donut King due to weighing a tonne, I'll still continue to taunt him." His eyes burned as he stared at Lestrade intently. "I will die with a cruel remark on my lips. And nobody, especially you, can stop me".

Lestrade's eyes blazed as he took in Sherlock's blunt words. John had to hide a smile and he moved forward to grasp Sherlock's hands.

"Enough now boys, the Queen's returning," John chided, smiling at Mycroft. His smile faded however when he noticed the large bit of white frosting near Mycroft's mouth, a sign of over-indulgence. He was grasping a new plate now and had removed his expensive dinner jacket, a slight bulge underneath the expensive linen of his shirt, signalling a full-stomach. "Has she arrived yet?" he asked, spraying cake out of his mouth as he spoke.

Sherlock glanced up, his eyes clocking the frosting and with that, Sherlock was off. Laughter poured from his mouth like a burst river from its banks, filling the room with the baritone chortles. John glanced at Sherlock, smiling softly. It was rare to see the detective laugh so freely, so wildly. He wanted to stop it, for Mycroft's sake. But at the same time he didn't want to.

He couldn't do that.

Not to him.

"M-Mycroft" Sherlock spluttered, holding his sides and pointing at his brother's face. "Was it a meringue? Or a Victoria Sponge?" Sherlock was giggling now, wiping his eyes to clear the tears of laughter. It may have not been the funniest circumstances. In fact, to someone outside of the loop, seeing a grown up man like Sherlock Holmes laughing hysterically at a piece of frosting almost made one consider the possibilities of him having an idiot's mind, but to John it was just like the Holmes brother wanted it to be. Not the revenge that Sherlock wanted, but a start nonetheless.

"Honestly, boys." A smooth voice behind them stopped Sherlock's giggling sharply. John turned on the settee and eyed the owner of the voice. An incredibly tall woman studied them with dark critical eyes, her bow-lips pursed up in annoyance. John felt his mouth gape open. He had never seen such a striking beauty before. Despite her age, Violet Holmes seemed as youthful as her sons, her rich curled dark brown hair not hinting any signs of grey, and not a wrinkle betraying her smooth face.  
>Sherlock was right. She had the same sloping cheekbones, straight nose and almond-shaped eyes; but the colour was off, darker than the consulting detective's. She was dressed in immaculately cut trousers, a sand-coloured cashmere jumper and a dark grey blazer adorned with a large diamond brooch.<p>

"You never change do you?" she simpered, her rich French accent coming through as she stared at the four men before her, mainly focusing on Mycroft and Sherlock. "You were just the same even when you were boys. I've never seen so many tantrums," she remarked, bringing out a handkerchief from her leather bag. She snapped it shut efficiently and leant forward to wipe Mycroft's face. "I cannot believe I'm still doing this to you, Mycroft – surely you've gained some table manners since I last met you? And Sherlock dear, you can put down that fork now, darling".

"M-Mummy," Sherlock gasped, blindly groping for John's hand, his fork hitting the plate with a loud clang.

Violet stopped dabbing at Mycroft's face to smile rigidly at her two boys, her mouth barely extending to show her motherly love. "Ah, my darling boys. Such… precious little angels. Mycroft sweetie, you need to lose weight. Sherlock… You need to gain some. Always the opposite," she tutted, before casting her eye over the doctor beside Sherlock.

"And you must be John Watson." Her smile stretched slightly as she reached forward to clasp the doctor's hand, tugging gently on his arm. "No formalities now sweetie, we're family." With surprising strength she pulled John upright and into the cool embrace of her arms. John hesitantly hugged her back, inhaling her smell of Chanel No. 5 and leather. As she pulled away, she pressed a small present into his hand. It was square and solid, wrapped beautifully in a dark purple wrapping with a trailing silver bow.

"Just a trinket. Greg has something similar." She pulled an equally neatly-wrapped present out of her bag and swooped down to wrap the still-seated detective into a small embrace.

"Open them later, darlings. Now, my boys," she drew the last sound out as she pulled the two men together in a tight hug, pressing Sherlock and Mycroft together in a uncomfortable hug.

She pulled back rapidly and held her sons at arm's length. "Honestly, you get more handsome everyday, Mycroft. No wonder Greg has a hard time keeping his hands off you. And darling if you want to cover up that love bite, I suggest MAC makeup –" she rootled in her bag and produced a large white compact powder, to which Mycroft flushed; the almost invisible mark on his neck standing out now. " – And Sherlock… Well…You smell like a laboratory rat darling. Didn't you shower beforehand?" She wrinkled her nose up delicately. "I didn't expect the height of cleanliness from you darling, but really. Basic hygiene? And you must get that blasted mop of your hair cut back; it makes you look unruly. I'll book you in at Georgy's sweetie, they like you there." As she continued talking, she walked away from him, lightly patting her youngest son on the shoulder as she passed.

John took in Sherlock's expression; the bitten lip, the flash of suppressed anger in his eyes, the unnatural pale hue of his skin. He had never seen his fiancé so angry, yet so composed.

"Now… Where is that father of yours? I left him at the front desk twenty minutes ago and – Oh, there you are, my love." A short laugh came from the door and John turned around to see a smaller man, wearing a fedora and a swish pinstripe suit. His face was handsome in an understated way, and his smile was a carbon-copy of Mycroft's. But when he glanced at each man in the room, John spotted his ice-blue irises, like chips of a glacier burning into his eyes.

Sherlock's eyes.

* * *

><p><strong>Reviews most welcome and loved! - Flamers not so much.<strong>

***Disclaimer***

**I don't own any of the characters - Everything goes to the BBC and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.**

**TBC.**


	5. Mission 5: Siger's Entrance

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><p>"Tea?" Violet leaned forward and plucked the menu off the table, quirking her dark eyebrow at John as he took in the chic interior of the Lounge at The Cavendish.<p>

_Sherlock, I've got a feeling we're not in Baker Street anymore…_

"Uh, yes please… Violet." John smiled hesitantly at the matriarch.

"Or would you prefer coffee? They've got delightful lemon water here which I thoroughly recommend. Zero in fat or dairy, which does wonders for the complexion. Although I've always admired the ruddy glow of the British serving man," Violet simpered, patting John's knee quickly. Beside him, Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed heavily. John reached out and gently grasped his wrist, stroking the soft skin in reassuring circles.

"Tea sounds lovely," John concluded, blushing briefly at his future mother-in-law's flirtation.

Sherlock's eyes quickly darted towards this movement and his mouth quirked up slightly as he saw his fiancés sweet attempt of a calming presence, but when his mother was acting in such a way there was no tranquiliser that could calm his nerves.

"My darlings? Black coffee, two sugars for you, Sherlock? You haven't changed since adolescence." Violet sighed as if this was a negative "And Mycroft? Tea? Remind me again, sweetheart, was it five sugars or more?" She lowered her voice and leant forward to speak in a stage whisper to Lestrade, ignoring the splutters of her eldest son. "I don't know _how _you put up with his sweet tooth. It was the bane of my life as a mother. Well... It looks as if he -" she shot a pointed glare at Mycroft's stomach "- is making up for it now." She exhaled and sat back, drawing the Detective Inspector into a long conversation about his work, leaving John and Sherlock to their own devices.

John's phone buzzed in his pocket silently. He glanced at his partner, who was staring out of the window, seemingly lost in thought. Keeping his hand on Sherlock's wrist, he extracted the phone with some difficulty.

_As much as I appreciate the attention, John, I can't help but wonder if you've got a purpose for gripping on to my wrist? –SH_

John glanced suspiciously at his partner, before noticing Sherlock's phone nestled in his jacket pocket. The doctor chuckled quietly as he typed out a reply.

_You looked uncomfortable. I'm only doing my duty as a good fiancé and provider. – JW x_

_You? The provider? And what would I be? A __**househusband.**__ I merely guessed you were keeping a check on my pulse for signs of elevated stress? Any good doctor would do that. – SH._

_That would be a sneaky trick to pull anyway. And, no, I wouldn't let you near the domesticity of the house for a while. You can just sit and look handsome. – JW x_

_Dull and boring, John. I'll keep solving my cases whilst you make us tea. I think we've worked well in that situation for quite some time. John, I believe my father wants a word. – SH._

John glanced at the suited man sitting on his other side. Siger Holmes met his eye with a cool interest, the colour the exact iridescent glasz of Sherlock. Although he had traces of Mycroft in his features, the elder Holmes had a different charm about him, his face reminiscent of the time of silent movies and the Golden age of Hollywood. His hair was still lush and dark, streaked with a few fine silver hairs at the temple and a thin pencil moustache on his top lip. The fedora he had perched casually on his head seemed to set off the entire ensemble off, and due to what John learnt about the legendary couple from their son, was probably one of his own creation.

"Dr. John Hamish Watson… It's taken too long to make your acquaintance, a damned sight too long." Siger's voice was low and quiet, his accent distinctly British.

John nodded, squeezing Sherlock's wrist and glancing over to him quickly. To his surprise the detective was staring right back, watching their interaction with interest.

"I know, Siger, I've been... meaning to meet you and your lovely wife for some time now but-" John hesitated, not wanting to say _'Your son is a stubborn fool who threatened to use me as one of his experiments if I contacted you,' "- _work has been so hectic the last few weeks," he concluded.

"Weeks? No, Dr. Watson, I've been eager to meet you for over four years now, ever since Sherlock first mentioned you in his letters. And don't feel you need to apologize, I figure my youngest had some input in your decision," Siger drawled, leaning forward and watching him with a criticizing interest. His glacier eyes seemed to burn into John's very soul, such a familiar feeling as Sherlock took that exact expression when his partner did something remarkable.

John cleared his throat, feeling awkward at the elderly man's interest. Siger sighed and dropped his gaze, aware to this fact and continued his conversation along the same track, his voice low now in an attempt to just let John overhear him and nobody else

"Sherlock has told me a lot about you, as I've revealed. He spoke of your bravery, hidden intellect and frustration when it comes to deciphering your personality. But what my son doesn't realize is that I can see straight through you John Watson." Siger stared directly at John then, his eyes gleaming in the light. His voice low and fast, he carried on speaking. "Sherlock may possess some degree of talent for deduction, but when it comes to emotions and feelings, he's barely scratched the surface. All to do with his upbringing, I assure you. When they were children, Violet and I tried to mould Mycroft into the perfect office worker; happy with his job, delighted by the simple pleasures that confectionary brought him." John couldn't believe how much he saw in Sherlock with Siger. Even the taunting of Mycroft was accompanied by the same slight quirk of the lip.

"This was a success… But Sherlock? An anomaly. When Violet was pregnant with him, she kept running up fevers and taking to our bed with burning skin. It was if Sherlock was this… **heat **inside of her, burning through her being."

John didn't know how to react. Siger Holmes, this legendary figure of Sherlock's murky past was diverging so much in regards to his son's birth and the impact it had on his life. He felt honoured, yet scared. It was clear how much Siger adored his youngest son. As he spoke his eyes lost the piercing sharpness, still retaining the shifting colour but gaining a misty quality, like an early morning boat going through a river covered in freezing fog. He was lost in his memories as he spoke and John didn't dare interrupt.

"And when he was born, I knew he was going to be spectacular. He taught himself to read before Mycroft did, and had this sensitivity that his brother didn't have. His deductive skills started early. It was almost terrifying in a beautiful aspect. And ever since he reached adulthood, his mother has been keen for partnering him up with an equal, a woman who possessed the same level of learning that Sherlock did. However, I knew, deep down that Sherlock wouldn't find this an equal, but a rival. He debated with the women Violet brought home, and reduced them down to tears. What Sherlock needed was somebody who could break through the hard shell. I think he's found him, John," Siger finished, leaning back in his seat and smiling slightly at John.

The doctor stayed silent, his brain whirring with the suggestion that he was the one that Siger was talking about. He felt flattered. Hell, more than flattered. He was bowled over. He had never considered himself worthy of the love that Sherlock bestowed on him, never figured out why this happened. Half a decade ago he was in sun-drenched Afghanistan, feeling the sun beat down on his skin as he heard bullets ricocheting off nearby buildings. He saw comrades die, agonising wounds and paralysis that brought soldiers to the very brink of their capability. He never considered another life, a civilian life. It was an odd dream, wanting to remain in the foreign country with the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, but it was the danger he craved. A life of tedium didn't suit Dr John Watson.

And when he came to London, after running through the streets late at night with a madman in a great coat, being strapped to 20 pounds of semtex and other horrors, he never considered he would fall desperately in love with the lunatic, or that the hare-brained detective would reciprocate those feelings with the same intensity. He knew he was lucky, and having Siger's approval just made his decision to remain with Sherlock a thousand times more secure.

A sniffle interrupted his thought pattern.

Beside him, tears were flowing down Sherlock's face. The detective looked completely indifferent to it, apart from his determined expression and glistening eyes. John immediately snapped into his protective mode, and with a loud screeching sound, he yanked Sherlock's chair closer to him and wrapped his arms around the detective, with one hand tenderly stroking his curls.

"Sherlock! Darling, whatever is the matter?" Violet exclaimed, her expression stricken as she caught sight of her youngest son in distress. She reached forward, meaning to embrace him but faltered after seeing the detective wrap his arms around the doctor hugging him. Never had Violet Holmes seen such tenderness come from her son. Such affection was always given to her by Mycroft, and even as a child Sherlock had shied away from caresses or kisses that came from his mother. Siger, her own heart's desire, had always been more relatable to Sherlock's needs and always had been the one that Sherlock came too when he singed parts of his body in astray experiments and had been clipped by a car when trying to gather 'samples' from the tarmac.

Sherlock had been an odd child. A beauty, there was no doubt about that. Even as a small boy, he had the defined cheekbones of his mother and the piercing eyes of his father, but he hadn't acted as a normal child did when playing. To Mycroft, climbing a tree as a small boy was the biggest adventure and always wailed when he became trapped up in the highest boughs. Sherlock had dismissed that pastime entirely, and shocked his mother when he announced as a precocious five-year-old that to do so was an 'incredible waste of his time and destined for disaster'. On holiday in their chalet in Switzerland, Mycroft had wept when he had to limit his toy packing for his clothes. Sherlock had responded in the same way when he couldn't pack what he considered were 'necessary' test tubes and his pH tester.

But now, so fragile and happy to be embraced by the doctor, it was a completely revolutionary act for the usual introverted detective. Violet hadn't completely warmed to John Watson yet, but now she saw a new side to him. A sweeter, calming influence to her flighty son. Her eyes flickered over to her husband. The one person who meant everything to her apart from her sons, whose love never had any boundaries. Siger was smiling at John, his face thoughtful as he took in John's reaction to Sherlock. He approved.

And if he did, that proved how good John was for Sherlock.

She reached into her bag, producing a fresh pack of tissues and handed them to John, a slight prickling sensation coming from the back of her eyes to signal her own slightly watery eyes.

She heard a deliberate, presence-signalling cough coming from behind her. Turning whilst carefully wiping her eyes, suddenly terrified of smearing her makeup, she beamed at the five people standing uneasily behind her.

"Ah, what a pleasure!" she purred at the people, her eyes swivelling between them eagerly. "I must warn you… I haven't sprung it on darling Greg and John yet." She chuckled lightly.

Hearing their names, the two engaged men looked up, their eyes widening as they took in the people standing behind Violet. In John's embrace, Sherlock frowned at his suddenly immobile fiancé and glanced up towards the people. Two relatively elderly couples, one set with their eyes fixed on John, clutching the sleeves of a younger woman whose skin had taken on the unhealthy tinge of alcohol poisoning.

_Oh._

Sherlock knew precisely who they were. He knew their life stories, their meeting, the details of their marriage and their offspring. One of which he was clutching now.

"Mum… Dad…" John and Greg both choked out the same strangled greeting.

John frowned at the younger woman.

"Harry… What are you doing out of the clinic?"

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><p><strong>Reviews most welcome and loved! - Flamers not so much.<strong>

***Disclaimer***

**I don't own any of the characters - Everything goes to the BBC and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.**

**TBC.**


	6. Mission 6: Matriarch Vs Mummy

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><p><strong>Also! Please tell me what you want to happen next - a conversation between HolmesWatson family OR onto the wedding?**

**It's up to you!**

**'Religion is the sigh of the oppressed creature, the heart of a heartless world, and the soul of soulless conditions. It is the opium of the people' – Karl Marx.**

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><p>It didn't take the world's only consulting detective to deduce this lunch was a disaster. But it helped. Sherlock was leaning back in his chair, his hand lightly resting on his fiancé's thigh and was coolly watching the mayhem in front of him.<p>

Although he surveyed the scene as an innocent bystander, his name kept cropping up coated with every kind of emotion, and as he slowly scanned the madness he constantly felt the little prickles of attention from his in-laws' interested eyes on the other side of the coffee table.

He couldn't deny he was interested in the elderly couple sitting before him. They had created the wonderful man he was going to spend the rest of his life and hopefully eternity with. But that small detail was insignificant. Sherlock was more fascinated with the reverence that John spoke of them. He had never seen that hidden fire in his partner's eyes glow whenever he reminisced about anything in his past, but it was an entirely different story when it concerned Beatrice and Gerald.

He studied the woman sitting in front of him, his eyes trying to pick at her imperfections, attempting to deduce what made this small woman who barely reached five foot and was as matronly as a Germanic propaganda picture tick.

But he couldn't.

Sherlock could see why John worshipped this angel in front of him.

The detective wasn't religious in any sense. He thought Marx's words about religion were one of the truest statements he had ever read, but he could see why people believed in celestial bodies.

Especially with the representation of one sitting next opposite him, sipping tea delicately.

Beatrice Watson was dressed in a smart, dove-grey pleated skirt with a thick pair of tan tights encasing her thin legs and a matching cardigan with black piping running down the sleeves. She was resting her cream handbag on her lap, her nails painted with a clear polish and she was wearing a dark grey cloche hat which framed her lined face.

Sherlock had had a fair amount of interaction with elderly people, and had always seemed interested with the process of aging. His own mother, most likely due to extensive facelifts and good genes, seemed to be as youthful as a 30 year old, whilst Beatrice had aged as a normal person should have.

Her face was lined, folded up and wrinkled, but instead of the traditional look of a mature woman with her drooping skin and astigmatic eyes, Beatrice suited this gradual aging wonderfully, her skin resembling more an origami creation more than a plus sixty female.

Her eyes were still alert underneath the gentle curve of her white eyebrows, an interesting colour of a greenish hazel rather than John's dark blue. Her voice was soft and high, with a blurred Northern accent. She laughed when expected to, and looked concerned when it was proper. Although his mother prized herself on her good manners and delicate pronunciation, those were bought skills. Beatrice seemed to have been born with them.

It took a lot to make Sherlock warm to somebody, but he could happily see his future mother-in-law being that sort of woman where it was inevitable.

He was dimly aware that his mother was tugging on his sleeve, most likely trying to engage him in conversation, in an attempt for him to use the social graces he had been brought up with. But he wasn't going to yield to her frankly irritating chatter, not today. Not when he had the woman who bore John Watson, raised him and made him into the man he loved, sat across from him.

"Darling," his mother tapped Sherlock on the arm forcefully now, smiling frostily at Greg Lestrade's mother. The tension that flowed between the two women was stifling, both of their spouses sighing heavily as their over-inflated egos battled against each other.

"Oh, yes, Violet dear, I forgot you had **two **sons. The trouble you **must **have had to regain your figure again… it doesn't bear thinking about," the detective inspector's mother simpered, but with enough venom in her tone to kill a horse.

It was odd. To Sherlock, Johanna Lestrade seemed that she'd easily fit in with his mother and her clique; Polished, spiteful, and yet sweet enough to her family and what she considered lesser mortals, which equated to John's parents, himself and his brother, their father and his fiancé. In a different situation, Sherlock could easily see Johanna being his mother's closest confidante. But instead she was a rival for the alpha female.

"Oh, my sweet, it just snapped back. Shame that you're still carrying the same effects after 48 years and just one child," Violet retorted, smiling smugly at Johanna's sudden movement, taking in the matriarch of the Lestrade family's flustered movement as she patted down the silken tunic over her stomach.

Sherlock smirked as he watched his mother slowly take in her rival's outfit, disgust clear in her eyes. Although his mother seemed to be the bane of his life in some recent weeks, he admired her greatly for her cool composure in dealing with other members of the human race. Apart from John, he found other people tiresome. Even his brother bored him endlessly.

"Well… Harold and I are very proud of Greg's career. It's clear who is going to be the breadwinner in this family, hmm?" Sherlock rolled his eyes at Johanna's obvious mistake. Surely his mother had been boasting enough about Mycroft's 'minor' position in the British Government for as long as this luncheon had been going on. Either Sherlock had missed something – which was entirely improbable – or Johanna was still trying to score points against the retired businesswoman.

"Of course it is, dearest Johanna. But I doubt that lovely Greg would want to sponge off our Mycroft for the rest of their married life. Although he is what we call, rather amusingly, **the **British Government, a policeman is a very noble character. Isn't that right, Siger, darling?" she reached over to where Sherlock's father was lazily sipping a large brandy, watching the interaction between the two women in silent amusement.

"Don't bring me into this, Vi," he smiled at her, his eyes showing pity as he regarded his beloved wife as a squabbling schoolgirl.

She narrowed her eyes at him briefly, before turning back to the woman who sat next to her, gripping Greg's hand as he glanced at Mycroft, clear panic showing in his eyes. Mycroft shook his head as he reached out to stroke his fiancés shoulder lightly, attempting to relax the tense detective.

"A high-ranking policeman? I'll have you know, sweetie -" Johanna spat the last word out between clenched teeth, "- that his job involves a great deal of physical trials, keeping his figure as trim as a twenty-year old. I can't say that for Mycroft, can I?"

Sherlock's estimation of this woman went up suddenly; grinning privately as Mycroft's weight came into the equation once more, something Mycroft exhale loudly.

_Although he couldn't see how it could leave the conversation, the size it was,_ Sherlock mused, as he saw his mother's eyes glimmer in anger.

"At least my son hasn't started going prematurely grey now. I expect the stress of dealing with his… darling mother got to him finally," Violet finally ran out of carefully hidden digs at Johanna, her smirk twisted up pleasantly and from beside Sherlock side, John started slightly.

The smirk, the oh-so-I'm-right-all-the-time look was so achingly familiar. He had just been a bystander of this entire argument, the heat radiating off Sherlock's hand which had been placed casually on his thigh the entire lunch. He had exchanged a few quiet words with his parents, both of them voicing joy when it came to the debonair Holmes that John introduced them to. What had been drawing his attention from the initial conversation the entire thing was the curled up figure of his sister on a seat opposite him, resting next to his father. She had muttered a few quiet 'hello's to the whole group before drinking her tea slowly, taking in the statuesque family John was marrying into.

John couldn't help but be worried about her. Although their squabbles, which had resulted in angry words from both sides and marks that he wasn't sure he could recover from, he still loved his sister. Harry had always been quiet, studious enough to make her parents happy and involved in a loving relationship with Clara, who had become a quick part of their family.

But when their marriage dissolved, Harry found the numbing feeling that alcohol gave her. Gone with his sweet-tempered sister, with her wide smile and quiet movements, and here came an emotional wreck, screaming and crying at all hours in the morning.

John was sure Harry had fallen asleep in the warmth of the goose-down stuffed chair, her head resting on her arm and creases appearing in her recently washed suit. It was the same suit she had gotten married in, John realized. A powder blue skirt, with a matching blazer and white shirt. Although Harry had been cleaned out, the tiredness she still associated with drink affected her greatly, causing some concern for her family.

John had kept his eye on her, studying her whilst she had been still, trying to put the healthy image of his sister he kept tucked at the back of his mind, with this emancipated yellow skeleton. It didn't help that much, but certain little quirks he remembered of his sister from their childhood still wound up in her everyday routine.

A small comfort to John now.

"At least my son has kept most of his hair!" Johanna was practically screeching now, and with a dramatic huff she threw down Greg's hand and stood up, straightening her tight skirt over her legs. Completely ignoring the now scarlet Violet Holmes, she turned to her son and pressed a light kiss on his forehead, still slightly out of breath.

"I think, my prince, we've outstayed our welcome. We'll see you at the wedding next? Mycroft… It's been lovely. I'm just sorry your… lovely mother and I can't get along. We'll see you both very soon. Come on, Harold." she said stiffly, before hesitantly pressing a similar kiss to Mycroft's cheek. She turned to John's parents and offered her goodbyes, before just nodding at Sherlock and John. Pulling her exasperated husband to his feet, she stalked out, throwing the double doors open as her husband had to run to catch up with her.

The table was silent, before Greg sighed loudly. "Violet… I'm sorry about he-" the matriarch hushed his next word, with a wide smile, still looking very flustered.

"Darling, it's fine! Just… We'll be civil next time we see her. Won't we, Siger?" She shot her husband a warning look, as if he was to blame for his wife's outburst.

"Of course," he murmured back, before flashing John's parents a sincere smile. "We can get to know the other side of our lovely family now."

The Watsons both blushed crimson as all eyes turned on them. Beatrice was just about the offer a remark when a light cough came from Harry's chair.

John's sister raised herself up, squinting slightly in the light as one side of her hair stuck up. "Wassgoin'on?" she muttered as she stretched, a definite slur coming from her voice.

And Sherlock knew, from the paling of John's face alone, this was no sleep-induced slur.

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><p><strong>Reviews most welcome and loved! - Flamers not so much.<strong>

***Disclaimer***

**I don't own any of the characters - Everything goes to the BBC and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.**


	7. Mission 7: Confronting Harry

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**This isn't the happiest chapter - but one that just flowed with me.**

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><p>Dinner had become a noticeably strained affair after the shouting. John was still tomato-red and glaring as his sister continued to sniffle, whimpering whenever she caught John's disapproving look.<p>

Sherlock's own parents were making small talk with the Watson's, and even by Violet's quick assessment over Beatrice's outfit, she seemed to be enjoying herself. Sherlock knew, by the delicate pink spots on her cheeks and the subtle gleam in her eyes, Violet was slotting Beatrice into her column of possible friends.

And the consulting detective himself was trying to keep the tension from rising between the volatile Watson siblings.

However, keeping a peaceful and calm atmosphere wasn't Sherlock's forte.

"Would you like some cake, John?" he asked in desperation. His fiancé's eyes flickered to meet his, and Sherlock felt his heart jump slightly. Obvious pain and disappointment were clear in the usually placid orbs, and it felt like a dagger in Sherlock's side that somebody else had caused that.

He also had a selfish part of him, gleeful that for once it wasn't him who caused his anguish, but Sherlock easily ignored this.

"How could she do it, Sherlock?" John kept his voice down, but it broke under the torment Harry had put John through just by revealing her alcoholism ways were thriving once more.

"Do you want the logical I-tell-you-all-the-facts-bluntly-and-you-get-hurt-even-more answer or the sympathetic tabloid paper way?" Sherlock questioned. After trial-and-error session with John, in which the Captain remained oblivious and Sherlock gained information, he knew that his bluntness and eagerness to answer the question without any emotional ties could provide unnecessary hurt on his fiancé's part, so Sherlock tried to adapt his answer to a more understanding level.

John smiled briefly, the movement so quick it would've been missed on a slower man. "Right now, I think bluntness is the kindest solution actually, Sherlock".

Sherlock nodded, and preceded to stare unblinkingly at his future sister-in-law whilst narrating to John what he deduced.

"Although Harriet appears to have hidden the alcoholism fairly well with a sustainable cover of foundation – a shade which doesn't suit her pale skin – she failed to cover her neck and other visible parts of body. The yellow tinge is the most noticeable there, but like you John, she also seems to tan fairly well. But the shade of her recent sun worshiping – which, incidentally, seems to have come from a bottle due to the streaky patterns on her legs – and the jaundice clash quite obviously. However, with the cover-up of those 'natural tights' and her heavy suit, she seems to be fully aware of what she is doing. Especially with her clothes. The suit seems to be made to hug the curves of a woman, which I suspect Harriet had when she bought it. However, it droops over her, emphasizing her alcohol-emancipated frame. However, with the use of the thick tights, and the bulky material of her suit and undergarments, I suspect she has attempted to cover up the majority of her weight-loss. Alongside the dark, sleep-deprived circles under her eyes and sunken but flushed cheeks, this seems to point to a woman who knows how to deal with her drink and her family. Now…" he paused, and leaned forward to face the woman, whose eyes seemed to be out of focus and drooping. "HARRIET!" he called loudly and clapped his hands on her shoulders.

She jolted and dropped the cup of tea she was clutching on to. Her eyes flew up to meet his and he smirked as he stared into them. Every single pair of eyes from their table moved to stare at Sherlock now clutching hold of the clearly-panicked Harriet Watson. Violet silently groaned and squeezed the bridge of her nose in frustration.

"Clever… Contact lenses to disguise the fact your sclera has turned a startling shade of yellow. Somebody has been reading up on how to hide their dependency from their family, hmmm?" Sherlock lowers his voice down, so John has to lean closer to hear what he's whispering to his sister.

"Now, Miss Harriet, this isn't fair. What you're doing to John and your loving family on the lead-up to our wedding should be stopped immediately. You're stopping us enjoying our forthcoming marriage, and the union of our two families. And if you didn't suffer from a degrading illness and weren't John's sister, I would have you forcibly taken to rehab on some remote island. If you don't believe me, shall we test it out? I'm trying to understand why you're so tormented, but I can only speculate. It is clear the breakdown of your marriage started it, as well as Clara's refusal to communicate with you, which is clear by your wedding ring. But there is something else…" He stared deeply into her eyes, before scanning over her clothes.

Suddenly his face was alight with realization, as he smiled triumphantly. "I see… Clara is getting remarried again or something to the same effect. You've seen her with a new partner and she looks happy, whilst you are still battling with your own demons. But listen to me now, Harriet. If you still want to be healthy and part of this family, I can make that happen. If you want to stop drinking and be a part of our wedding, it's a possibility. But I can't make you do anything. I can't make you accept treatment. But Harriet… Clara is happy now. And surely you living in the past won't change anything. I know these are just words, but look around and see, for the first time, what you're really losing."

Sherlock pulled away and rested back in his chair, clasping John's hand. John stared at him in disbelief. It took a lot to surprise him about his future husband, but now… He couldn't quite believe what Sherlock had done.

He couldn't believe what happened next either.

Harriet turned her head woodenly, staring intently at each member of her family as well as her new in-laws. As she turned, her eyes filled with tears, drenching her cheeks.

"Mum…. Dad?" her soft voice waivered as she stared at her parents.

Her mother shook her head slowly, but a smile still broke out on her face. "You do worry us, Hattie." She reached out and squeezed her daughter's shaking hand. Her father nodded in agreement.

As she turned to John, she whimpered as her younger brother sighed heavily and leant forward, kissing her forehead lightly.

"Please… get help," he whispered as his lips lingered on her forehead. She nodded, finally defeated.

"Mr. Holmes?" she turned to Sherlock, her head bowing slightly. "Please… get me some help."

Sherlock nodded once and stalked off, ringing Mycroft as he left the Watson family to embrace each other.

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><p>"I can't believe you did that" John shrugged out of his coat as they stood in the doorway, later that evening.<p>

"You were there, John, why can't you believe this?" Sherlock replied, chucking his coat over the back of the settee.

"I don't think any of us have ever talked to Harry in such a manner. Mum and Dad try and talk to her but can't get through and I just end up losing my temper." John shook his head as he padded to the kitchen.

"I suppose this has increased your desire to marry me now?" Sherlock mused as he joined John in the kitchen, pulling two clean mugs down from the highest cupboard.

"You do have your uses," John smirked as he turned to press a soft kiss on Sherlock's lips. The detective responded immediately, wrapping one arm around the smaller man to hold him tightly around his waist.

"Thank you," John whispered, as they broke apart, his lips travelling down to Sherlock's pale neck.

"What for?" Sherlock threaded his fingers in John's sandy hair, holding him in place.

"For just being the demanding, arrogant sod who I feel in love with," John replied lightly and pulled the detective by the loops of his belt to the bedroom upstairs.

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><p><strong>NOTE - I researched alcoholism symptoms and this is what I found. I apologize if I missed something. I don't mean to be disrespectful if this comes through in the text at all, which I hope it doesn't. Please message me if you've got any queries.<strong>

**Disclaimer - I don't own any characters - everything to BBC/Sherlock/Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and any necessary parties.**


	8. Mission 8: Boys at Home

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><p><strong>Guys - I'm so sorry for the time it's taken me to update this. I've had exams, moving house and went to London last week for London Film and Comiccon. Also, since we HAVEN'T finished our moving, I have no idea when I can update next. Sorry fellows.<strong>

**This is just a filler chapter before I kick into the Wedding arc soon!**

**Love you all**

**SnivaliceLlover xx**

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><p>Three days," John muttered, crossing the date off the calendar, marking away another day which interfered with his plans in a few days.<p>

Sherlock hummed in agreement, his laptop tilted away from John as he scrolled through his email account, stalling as he read the confirmation which informed him that his ring for John had been sized and was available for pickup. He smirked briefly at the photo attached. He hoped the plain white-gold ring was John-enough for his doctor. Of course he had it reinforced with steel and titanium inlays to make it tough enough to keep on cases with him. The inscription inside was delicately carved to resemble Sherlock's penmanship as much as possible.

'_Remember tonight... for it is the beginning of always._'

Sherlock had no idea how the gentle doctor drew out these emotional responses in him. He suspected they had been buried behind intellect and enough select memories of dead bodies, waiting for a true genius to extract them. John was that genius.

"For us to be civilly joined," Sherlock remarked, reaching over the laptop screen to trail his fingers down John's arm. Even simple touches like this made the doctor beam.

"I prefer the term 'married' but if you're going to go all PC on me…" John glanced down at Sherlock's long fingers wrapped around his wrist in a loose manacle. How he couldn't wait to get a wedding band on that long digit. He hoped Sherlock would like it. It was too late now anyway, the ring in question was locked in a security box near the Strand for the time-being. Keeping it in the flat was too risky - the consulting detective had a bloodhound-nose for anything to do with their upcoming nuptials.

"We live in a modern society, John. I work with the police and you're a doctor. If anybody has to be PC it must be us," Sherlock joked, shutting down his computer and turning his full attention to his fiancé.

"Surely we can break the mould." John smiled and walked to stand in front of Sherlock, resting his hand on the back of the tall detective's neck, rubbing the tight muscles there.

"Some men just want to watch the world burn," Sherlock murmured, wrapping his arms around the doctor's waist.

"I can't wait to marry you, Mr. Holmes." John bent down to brush his lips against the dark curls of the consulting detective's head.

"Civilly joined, Mr. Watson." Sherlock moved up to press a tender kiss against John's smirking mouth.

"Spoilsport."

"Rebel."

"Three days," Mycroft groaned in relief, yanking off his tie as he walked into the warm house, grateful for the inviting lobby that juxtaposed the cool night outside.

Greg smiled at him from the settee, a beer in his hand and the television blaring out a Western.

"Keeping track, hm? Excited much?" Greg sipped the beer.

"You would be, too, if in three days it'd be the last time you had to see my dear brother for a long time," Mycroft beamed, looking like a cat-with-the-cream as he carelessly shucked his jacket off and tossed it onto a lobby chair.

"And here I was, thinking you'd be pleased about getting married." Greg shook his head playfully, as Mycroft leaned down to press a small kiss against the salt-and-pepper hair before walking towards the liquor cabinet. A small sherry was a necessity after a day in the office, which, whilst full with suspected terrorist cells gaining knowledge about their missile bases, had been plagued by his mother making calls regarding the type of cake frosting they wanted.

"My love, I am pleased, but I can't wait to see the scrawny back of Sherlock for a time." Mycroft tipped the drink up, swallowing it whole and sighing as the welcoming warmth made his knotted muscles relax slightly.

"Lucky for you. He'll be at the Yard the minute they come back from the honeymoon." Greg peeked up to see Mycroft tower above him, casually playing with his hair whilst the other hand traced along the Detective Inspector's jaw.

"Why don't you give Anderson a whole bundle of cases to pile on Sherlock when he comes back? Make him deal with him? It'll keep two men out of your hair then?" Mycroft suggested lightly, smiling softly as Greg laughed deeply.

"I can't go arresting my own forensic leader when he finally kills your brother, love," Greg said, shaking his head, practically purring as Mycroft's fingers traced down his neck.

"What gave you the impression that Sherlock would lose? If the incentive of my brother being able to dissect and perform his own post-mortem on Anderson wouldn't be enough to spur Sherlock on, surely the pleasure of being able to actually kill him would do it?" Greg sighed in mock-annoyance, but heard truth behind Mycroft's words.

"Not going to happen. After Friday, Sherlock will be technically family. I can't blow off family just because of his overwhelming presence," Mycroft raised an eyebrow at this.

"And I suspect Dr. Watson will have something to say about it, as well," Mycroft mused. Greg tipped his beer up in agreement.

Finishing off the beer, Greg stretched before placing his own hands over Mycroft's.

"Bed?" he questioned, rubbing Mycroft's hands.

"Of course".

"I love you, Mycroft."

"And I love you, Greg."

"I love you, Sherlock."

"And I love you, John."

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><p><strong>Disclaimer - I don't own any characters - everything to BBCSherlock/Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and any necessary parties.**

**Review, add me onto lists, favourite, whatever kids!**

**Flamers aren't welcome - but critical reviews are :D **


	9. Mission 9: Wedding Arc Pt 1

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**Thank you to apaperrose for being my Beta once more - hope you feel better dearie.  
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><p><strong>Hi guys!<br>**

**Onto the Wedding Arc. It should be in three/four parts and after that I will be ending - you guys rock!  
><strong>

**Hope you like part 1!  
><strong>

**- SnivaliceLlover xx  
><strong>

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><p>"I, Mycroft Holmes, take thee... No. I, <em>Mycroft<em>… no, bloody hell. I, MYCROFT HOLMES-"

"You sound like a complete pillock," Sherlock's voice cut him off, making the eldest Holmes turn around, embarrassment and fury mixing in his eyes. Sherlock was leaning against the door of his room, a cup of coffee in his hand as he smirked at his brother.

"Don't, Sherlock," Mycroft threatened, making the consulting detective's eyes widen in mock-horror.

"Don't what, Crofty? You can't threaten me with anything," Sherlock responded, rolling his eyes at his brother's idiotic attempt to appear angry.

Mycroft lowered his voice. "I'll make sure you can't get that charming Molly to get you anymore body parts".

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, but was not willing to accept defeat so easily. "And I'll make sure you can't eat any wedding cake".

"An empty threat, brother?"

"As empty as you want it to be."

They glared at each other before nodding tersely.

"Truce?" Mycroft held his hand out. Sherlock took it slowly, each of them squeezing their hands harder than needed.

"Boys!" Violet sighed as she walked into the room. The boys turned to mother as she slung her expensive coat over their still-linked hands. "You're going to be married tomorrow to Greg and John. I think it's time you grew up." She raised an arched eyebrow at their childish antics.

"Sherlock started it," Mycroft stated, making the youngest brother gasp in annoyance.

"I don't care who 'started it'," their mother stated, closing her eyes in frustration. "I'm finishing it."

Mycroft only rolled his eyes before walking over to a small cabinet, pulling out an expensive crystal decanter full of amber liquid.

"Isn't it a bit early for whiskey, my dove?" Violet chastised as she leant down to brush an invisible piece of lint off her charcoal coloured dress.

"Consider it an early wedding present to myself, Mummy." He knocked back the strong tasting drink, a minute shudder running over him as it burnt down his throat.

"I thought your wedding present to yourself was the cake, Mycroft," Sherlock chimed from where he had stretched out in one of the plush armchairs of Mycroft's room.

Mycroft opened his mouth to respond before their mother held a wearisome hand up to stop their banter.

"Boys!" She snarled, her eyes flashing in a way that was oh-so-familiar when it came to Sherlock. "I'm at the end of my tether with you two! Tomorrow's going to be the biggest day of your life, and damn it all, you *will* be happy and smiling, or so help me -" Siger's entrance to the room made Violet's threat cut off, her face returning to a calm mask.

"Mother, you can't order us to be happy!" Although Violet seemed to have let go of the threat, Sherlock wouldn't have been his infuriating self if he had not continued.

"Sherly, Crofty, don't wind up your mother anymore," Siger chided, rubbing his hand against the back of Violet's neck. She closed her eyes in relief as she leant back into the touch, purring slightly.

Sherlock then realised with horror that his face must be striking similar to his mother's at this point when John did the exact same ministration. "Mother," he snapped, making Violet's eyes open lazily at the sound of her youngest child's tone. "Have you seen John? Is he coping?"

"Mm, same with Greg," Mycroft said. "How is he?"

John and Greg were following the age-old tradition of not being able to see their spouses before the wedding. They were even staying at different hotels, the location never disclosed to the Holmes brothers, but with Mycroft's technology and Sherlock's deduction skills, it was easy enough to figure out where exactly.

"Yes, yes, I've seen them briefly" she sighed, opening up her handbag to pull out a coral lipstick and mirror. "They seem fine – nervous, of course – but excited. I think they're enjoying their break from you a little too much," she scolded, reminding them how much pressure the wedding had put on their partners.

"Well, I didn't cause any unnecessary pain to John, but Mycroft on the other hand…" Sherlock waved his hand towards his brother.

"I? Sherlock, you forget your place sometimes. I wasn't the one who made things so difficult."

"Yes, but poking your beaky nose into situations didn't help."

"Beaky? How dare you, you... Stick insect."

"Why did it take you so long to come out with an insult, brother? The come-down from the sugar rush of the confectionery you consume slow you down, or all can you think of is animals the same size of you? An elephant, for example?"

"I'm so sick and tired of this constant abuse Sherlock. I tell you now, I'm not having it."

"You're the British Government, brother. You _need _to be able to handle situations."

"THAT IS ENOUGH!" Siger yelled, making all three of them jump. His face was flushed and his eyes narrowed, Siger Holmes was not a happy man.

"Sherlock, go to your room!" He pointed to the adjoining door which lead to Sherlock's suite. "I'll deal with you later." Sherlock frowned but quickly retreated to his room, slamming the door to show his disapproval.

"Mycroft, go down to the bar. Your mother and I can't bear the sight of you at this moment."

"B-but this is _my_ room!" Mycroft said indignantly.

"And I'm paying for it. Go!" Mycroft stomped out of the room, mirroring Sherlock by slamming the door.

Siger sank down beside his wife, resting his head on her lap and groaning. "When did such adults turn into children?" he questioned as his Violet affectionately stroked his hair

.

"You're under the misapprehension that they ever grew up, darling," Violet murmured, earning a small smile from Siger.

"Ah, yes, of course."

She patted his head once more before shoving him in an upright position. "Come on, we've got a wedding to plan for tomorrow" she said joyfully, smiling as her husband groaned heavily once more.

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><p><strong>Disclaimer - I don't own any characters - everything to BBCSherlock/Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and any necessary parties.**

**Review, add me onto lists, favourite, whatever kids!**

**Flamers aren't welcome - but critical reviews are :D **


	10. Mission 10: Wedding Arc Pt 2 and The End

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><p><strong>Hey guys. I won't even begin to start to apologize. I've just been doing Uni work - YES I'M IN UNI - HOW THAT HAPPENED I DON'T KNOW. <strong>

**Therefore I've had no time to write.**

**But now, here is the finale. Sorry if the end if abrupt, I just wanted to stop.**

**Hope y'all have had a Merry Xmas and good New Year.**

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><p>"Jesus. . ." John exhaled, tugging his tie into place as he looked at his reflection in the wardrobe mirror.<p>

Pale complexion, vain attempts at hiding the sleep-deprived dark circles under his eyes from view and with a slight sheen of sweat on his brow.

Yes, he had been a soldier - responsible for pressured literal life-saving decisions and sometimes gruesome deaths.

Yes, he had kept a calm front when Moriarty had strapped Semtex around his person and he had outrun the police countless times through the street-lamp lit streets of London.

But nuptials. Now that was a completely different kettle of fish.

"Calm down" he instructed himself, glaring at his shaking hands as the smoothed down his hair.

Over an hour to go. The car would be pulling up soon to escort them to the venue.

Sherlock and Mycroft would be joining them there. For their marriage.

Oh god, marriage.

A knock at the door shocked him out of his shock slightly.

Taking a deep breath, half-preparing himself for his mother to be standing outside, cheerfully but with a glimmer of a tear in her eye and with a wobbly voice announcing that it was time, he marched to the door and threw it open.

The contents of a florist's assaulted him.

He blinked from behind the huge bouquet, and a quivering voice came from the other side.

"M-mr Watson?" A young bellhop peeked around the edges of the lilies and roses to smile at John.

"These were delivered this morning. Here's the card-" a hand pushed a thick envelope at him. "-And your flowers sir. If you wouldn't mind taking from me, they're very heavy".

"Thanks" John said cautiously.

John carefully wrapped both arms around the flowers, one hand grabbing at the wrapped bottom, which had been adorned with bows and heaved them into his room, kicking the door shut behind him.

He dropped the huge bouquet on the bed, staring at the mass of beautifully cut flowers in admirable confusion. Turning the card over in his hand, he ripped open the envelope. A plain white card fell out, adorned with Sherlock's spiky writing.

John,

The Wedding. Come at once if convenient. Could be dangerous.

If inconvenient, come anyway.

-SH x

John smiled softly, stroking the writing with the tip of his finger.

"You brilliant man" he whispered, all fears gone know as he pictured the unruly curls and starry eyes. What was there to worry about? He was getting married to his other half.

A second knock on the door made him straighten up.

"John? The car's here" his mother called.

He patted his pocket, vows and wedding band safe.

"Showtime."

Sherlock smiled. John must have gotten his flowers now. He assumed the doctor would be terrified of the upcoming ceremony, and just the slightest reassurance from Sherlock should set him straight.

Mycroft straightened his tie beside him, his hand slightly shaking as he tugged the material into a perfect knot, his face businesses and cool.

The tiny twitch in the corner of his eye was the only outside movement which showed his true worry.

"It's only a wedding Sherly" Mycroft had repeated that statement over 12 times that morning, each time going from reassuring Sherlock towards anxious self-help towards himself. The Ice Man. That's what Adler had called him.

How wrong she was.

Sherlock knew Mycroft loved Lestrade. Loved him with his soul and knew his inner thoughts as well as John knew Sherlock's.

Well. . Perhaps a little bit less. Sherlock had to be better in that aspect.

Sherlock turned to his brother, smoothing down the front of his crisp shirt before laying a comforting hand on the elder Holmes shoulder.

"You're right Crofty. It's *only* a wedding".

"Oh! My boys getting along". A flash alerted them to their mother who had bustled into the room, an expensive camera in her hand and her suit classical and fitted. However, the main feature of the outfit was the outsized hat which perched precariously on her head and dipped low over her face, virtually covering on eye. The fact it was covered in white and black feathers also drew attention away from her suit.

Sherlock knew that his mother would be one of the most recognizable people there, but he hadn't expected her to steal the show entirely.

"Violet dear" Siger entered the room, dressed as impeccably as his wife and buttoning his cuffs. "I doubt the boys want photos done. They've hired a photographer, a good one at that, so please leave them be if they want".

"But darling, these are candid's! Oh-" their mother sniffed, waving her hands in front of her eyes in an attempt to stem the tears which usually were commonplace on wedding days. "-My boys getting married. Not to the lovely Fontaine sisters I **had **hoped for, but to darling John and dearest Gregory. Goodness, it's enough to make a grown woman cry" Violet babbled, rushing over and pulling her sons into a tight embrace, Sherlock and Mycroft pulled uncomfortably close to each other as they grimaced over her shoulder.

Siger lightly pulled his wife away, releasing the men from her iron grip around their necks and wrapped his arm around her shoulder.

"Right… Showtime".

John leaned his head against the wall of one of the venue's hired rooms. Violet had certainly spared no expense when it came to decorations. John saw bouquets of flowers, light displays and uniformed staff offering the guests champagne before he was whisked off to one of the back rooms which the grooms were staying in.

A knock at the door made him swallow. It truly was time.

Harry stood waiting. She looked healthier. Better and ready to escort him down the aisle where Sherlock would be waiting.

Hopefully at least. It was not unlike the detective to run out in he heard something more interesting was afoot. John wanted to think that Sherlock would rank their impending marriage above a triple murder case, but he wasn't so sure.

"Ready?"

John nodded.

"Ready Sherly?" Mycroft whispered, standing out the glass doors where the wedding would take place. Then, escorted by Siger, they would begin their walk down the aisle and wait for John and Lestrade.

"When haven't I been ready Mycroft?" Sherlock snapped back, his eyes hard and his mouth in a tight line. Mycroft knew his younger brother was putting up a front in order to try to appear calm at that time, but it wasn't working.

"Don't be awkward Sherlock" Mycroft snapped, glaring at his brother. He didn't need this right now, especially since Sherlock had been a thorn in his side since they had arranged the wedding together. It would be so relieving when they finally carried on with married life, without the hassle of any annoying family members.

"Well don't ask stupid questions Mycroft" Sherlock retorted, crossing his arms in front of his chest. Despite his brother frequently driving Sherlock around the bend with his inane queries and just frustrating appearance, Sherlock was quite glad he had a brother. Not only could he vent his anger out on him and Mycroft would take it, but he was an older sibling that despite all their clashes would look out for Sherlock. And in this time of panic, that's what Sherlock needed.

"Let's just get through this today alright? For John and Greg" Mycroft snarled, plastering on a smile as their mother came over to them, tears already streaking down her cheeks.

"I agree. I can get married to my blogger, whilst you have your cake party. We all win huh?" Sherlock smirked as Mycroft's face fell.

"You had too didn't you?"

"One more dig for old times' sake"

Siger appeared behind them, grinning as he patted both of his son's shoulders.

"It really is time boys".

The wedding was over in a blur of tears, eyes never leaving each other and the gripping of hands.

Neither John nor Greg tripped over their vows, and Mycroft would forever deny he let a few tears slide out when he heard his beloved whisper those words to each other. The room erupted into applause when they heard the word 'husband' and the first kiss as spouses, before a flurry of embraces and proud looks were exchanged between parents, all feuds forgotten.

And in the midst of all this hugging, with Sherlock being kissed by an elderly woman claiming to be John's great aunt and Mycroft hugging Greg's mother, the two brothers eyes met over the room and a secret smile was shared.

Yes, it may have been stressful.

But hell… It was worth it.

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><p><strong>Disclaimer - I don't own any characters - everything to BBCSherlock/Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and any necessary parties.**

**Review, add me onto lists, favourite, whatever kids!**

**Flamers aren't welcome - but critical reviews are :D**


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